Not About the Past Anymore
by Willow Battlegale
Summary: Latin professor Dr. Alisa Clark is in serious danger from a crazy stalker, and something about the damsel in distress archetype draws in an unlikely hero: SBPD's Carlton Lassiter. Replaces S6E3. Lassie/OC. T for unwarranted fluff and creepy criminals.
1. Chapter 1

**This was begun long, long before Season 6; I'm going to set it in Season 6 but we are going to pretend Marlowe didn't even happen, because in my head IT DID NOT HAPPEN. Written because Lassie is a hero who doesn't get nearly enough attention or cute, fluffy romance. **

**I AM shamelessly shipping an older version of myself with Carlton Lassiter, thanks for asking. Any resemblance between Alisa's ex-husband and my ex-boyfriend is strictly coincidental.**

I looked doubtfully up at the building. I didn't like the name—it pretty much screamed charlatan in a childish way—but this was supposedly where the best of the best worked.

My fingers clenched into a fist and I strode into the office. I immediately smelled pineapple and churros. Strewn around the room were Dorito bags, cheap novels, and movies whose names I didn't recognize.

It looked like a college dorm room set up to look like an office space. God, the best of the best wasn't going to be good enough, was it?

I saw the door into the second room and heard voices from a television, so I went towards it, stepping around the trash on the floor.

"Hello?"

"Well, good morning." A lazy voice said. I turned and stared at the speaker—he looked like a college student with way too much hair gel.

"I've been told that you're a psychic?"

"That I am, as well as a cinnamon enthusiast and a world celebrated monkeyologist."

"You mean a primatologist?"

"I've heard it both ways."

I sighed. "Clearly, I've made a mistake. Can you call me a cab to the police station, please?"

"I was about to head over there." He said. "Chief Vick needs to sign my latest check."

"Can you give me a ride, then? I had to walk here from my apartment."

"I ride a motorcycle. But you can sit on the back and run your fingers through my amazing hair."

I rolled my eyes. I was probably only eight years older than him, but there was no way I was going to let him flirt with me. "Don't you have anything better to do than sit around and flirt with any female organism that comes near you?" I asked impatiently.

He shrugged and threw a skittle into the air and tried to catch it with his mouth. I rolled my eyes again and picked up the keys on his desk. I walked out of his office and to his motorcycle. It was a great bike, actually.

I knew I'd look weird wearing a business pantsuit and riding a motorcycle, but I didn't care. I pulled my silver hair back into a bun and put the helmet on. The psychic ran outside as I started the motor and pulled out of the space.

I smiled to myself as I went as fast as the speed limit would allow, and soon enough I pulled into a space beside a burgundy sedan.

A man with salt and pepper hair climbed out of the car. "Spencer!"

I pulled the helmet off and blushed slightly. It wasn't a good idea to ride a stolen bike to a police station. He stopped dead.

"I'm sorry. I, um, borrowed the psychic's motorcycle. He was lounging around doing nothing and wasting my time."

"That's fine. Spencer's a nuisance anyway." He answered. "I'm Head Detective Carlton Lassiter."

"I'm Alisa Clark." I shook his outstretched hand formally.

"I like your hair colour." A pretty blonde woman said, smiling at me from the other side of the car. "I've never met anyone who dyed their hair silver instead of dying it to cover greys."

"This way makes grey hairs fit in."

She smiled. "That's a good idea. I'm Juliet O'Hara."

I walked over to shake hands with her.

"What can we do for you, Mrs. Clark?" Detective Lassiter asked.

"Oh, I'm divorced, and if you want to be technical, I've got a doctorate."

"I'm recently divorced myself." He said awkwardly.

I realized he was actually flirting with me and smiled at him. "I'm sorry. Well, the reason I'm here is that I've been getting love letters from a stalker." I admitted.

"Did you bring any of them?"

I reached into my suit jacket's inner pocket and pulled out seventeen of the letters. "About an eighth of them, actually."

"We'll look into it. In the meantime, would you like some coffee?" He inquired as took them.

"That'd be great. Do you have any rooms with no outer windows? I'm trying to avoid this guy."

"O'Hara, check these for fingerprints. Give McNab the murder case."

I raised my eyebrows as I walked into the station with him. He led me over to a counter with a coffee pot and stood between me and the window.

"You don't have to put me above a murder investigation, Detective Lassiter."

"It's more important to protect the living than to find justice for the dead."

I smiled and wrapped my hands around the warm mug. "I always wanted to become a cop, but I'm not smart like that."

"So what do you do?"

"I'm a professor," I smiled. "I used to teach English Literature at Harvard, and I currently teach Latin at the community college." My face fell slightly as I remembered why I fled Massachusetts.

"How did you end up here after working at an Ivy League school?" He asked tactlessly.

I smiled as the blonde detective sighed and tried to reprimand him. "Carlton!"

"It's quite alright, Detective O'Hara. I appreciate someone being as blunt as I am. I had to leave after my ex and I proved we couldn't work as colleagues when he was flaunting fifty young actresses in my face and threatening to poison my new boyfriend."

O'Hara whistled. "And I thought my exes were crazy." She said with a smile.

"I always attract the crazies. And if it's a normal guy, I turn him certifiable." I glanced at Detective Lassiter, hoping to warn him off before he did something stupid like—

"Get down!" He yelled, pushing me to the ground as a hail of bullets shattered the window.

I'd never been more terrified in my life. I'd been in dangerous situations throughout my life, but never one involving being shot at.

The bullets stopped and O'Hara cocked her gun, running around calling orders. I found myself in a sea of broken glass, protected by the lanky form of the SBPD Head Detective.

"Omigod," I half-whimpered, and then, "You saved my life."

"It's my job." He said, but the half-grin on his face told me he was rather pleased with this accomplishment.

Detective Lassiter got to his feet and helped me up, guiding me around the worst of the glass to O'Hara's desk while cops milled about.

"The question is why it is necessary!" I added.

"Your stalker, I'm sure. You were the target."

"You could've been killed." I realised suddenly. "He could've shot you on accident!"

He glanced down at himself. "No harm done, not even a nick in my suit." The detective said.

"The glass scratched your shoe." I pointed down at his left foot.

"Dammit! Sorry," He said, remembering I was listening.

I shook my head. "You oughtn't to apologise. I cuss a good deal at times. Tell you what, Detective, as thanks and apology, after I write a statement, we'll grab a coffee and you can tell me of your favourite cases. Deal?"

"Deal." He echoed strangely.

I smiled despite myself. _Dammit, Alisa, what are you getting yourself into now?_

"He got away!" O'Hara said angrily, reappearing.

"Better make it dinner at my house." Detective Lassiter told me. "It's far safer, believe me."

"Is 5:30 alright with you?"

"Ye-yes, yes it is."

_I ask again_, a sardonic voice in the back of my mind said, _just what are you getting yourself into_ now_?_

**Review. **


	2. Chapter 2

"And then all of us started making clown jokes—"They fit more bullets into the body than you could fit clowns in a car!"—and it was a department joke for ages."

I remembered O'Hara's insistence that this was not a joke to tell a woman over dinner. Clearly, she was wrong. Alisa had started laughing the minute I began with "so, we arrived on scene and found no less than twelve clowns dead" and had listened raptly as I described the bullet trajectory. Guess _she was wrong_, I thought somewhat giddily.

Today had been pretty amazing, actually, starting with her showing up at the station with a motorcycle stolen from Spencer of all people.

Then when Spencer came rushing in yelling about a thief in our midst with boyfriend troubles, I was able to introduce him to her and watch his face when she informed him I'd saved her life and his motorcycle needed an oil change, dropping his keys in his hands.

I was returned to the present by her humming in thought.

Seeing me give her a questioning look, she explained, "I was simply considering your gallows humour. It's very important for tough protagonists to lighten the mood without resorting to nonsense."

"It's been a while since I took an English class. What's a protagonist?"

"A hero. It's a lead character—like James Bond or Sherlock Holmes or Tom Highway."

"You've seen _Heartbreak Ridge_?"

"More times than I needed to have it permanently seared in my memory."

I stared at her. "You're serious!"

"Why? Do you like Clint Eastwood?"

"I have every single one of his movies." I said, grinning.

"No way! I used to, but I had to sell them. Santa Barbara is the most expensive place to live in the US. I don't own a car, either. It was impounded."

"You could get a roommate."

"Who would want me as a roommate? And where on earth would I meet one?" She laughed, tossing her silver hair over her shoulder. "I come home late and grade papers. I don't have a life outside of my work."

"Neither do I."

Alisa smiled sadly, "But you've got an amazing job. You're like something out of a TV show. Like Cops."

"Do you watch Cops?" I asked. _If she says yes, I might just kiss her._

Victoria had refused to watch Clint Eastwood movies with me and often turned the television off after just one episode of Cops. Of course, she'd never been near a motorcycle either and had religiously dyed every grey hair that ever appeared on her head.

"—and I love to watch the older episodes. Have you seen Bait Car? I love that show. And since I prefer fiction, I must say I enjoy any and all Law & Order." She stopped talking and examined me curiously. "Detective, are you okay?"

"Carlton. You can call me Carlton. I mean, since you insisted on Alisa."

"My friends call me Allie," Alisa informed me with a yawn.

"I've never heard that as a nickname for Alisa before." I said bluntly.

"I had a habit of talking very quietly, and my classmates in high school thought I said Allie. It just stuck, I guess." She rubbed her inner wrists together and glanced at the door. "What time is it?"

"Ready to leave already?"

I'd seen it coming, of course. Women are always leaving. But she'd seemed to be having a very good time, at least a better time than most.

She bit her lip. "I think I should. If I stay too late, my stalker will get the wrong idea about us and…"

"No need to make excuses." I replied stiffly.

Alisa's laughter caught me off guard. "You know, for a brilliant cop, you really can be an idiot. I'm leaving because I had an amazing time and if you get hurt because of me, I'll never forgive myself. And because I can't abide by such clichés."

"You're still in danger. Stay. I've got guns all over this place; you're safer here than just about anywhere else. Plus, I have every Cops episode ever aired and some that didn't air."

"You drive a hard bargain." She smiled. "Thank you, Carlton. Here, I'll clean these dishes for you."

I cleared my throat as she loaded the dishwasher. "After we solve this case… Can I see you again?" I looked away and drummed my fingers on the bar.

"If I survive this case," Alisa sighed, and then shook her head. "I'm terrified."

"I had someone try to kill me once, just like this."

"I bet you weren't at all afraid." She said quietly.

"Mostly bored," I admitted. "Chief kept me locked in a conference room for a while. Want to watch Cops?" I added, as she perched on the couch beside me and rested her elbows on her knees.

"Not really, I'd rather listen to you… What happened?" Allie leaned into me hesitantly.

"Spencer's inadequacy nearly got me killed but distracted him long enough for me to disarm him."

"You genuinely like the kid, though, don't you?"

"What?" I stared down at the top of her head.

"I get the feeling you don't allow nonsense. If you really hated him, you'd have kicked him out ages ago. I have students I do the same thing with. Then there are the students I actually do kick out. Sorry, continue."

"That's really the whole story."

"No, it's not. I was an English Lit professor. Start at the beginning."

"Well, we'd just won a softball game against a bunch of hairdressers and we were eating at the local cop bar when Spencer started to make some fuss about his meal not showing up. He went off to find the waitress and came back while we were singing to McNabb, and prattled on in my ear. I didn't hear much until he said gun, at which point I jumped up and shot at him—with two guns, I might add."

"Two guns? After a softball game?"

"I always have a weapon. There are tons in this place, remember?"

"Why?"

"Just in case, of course. It actually came in handy once—I used the one hidden in that bowl to save my life and Spencer's."

"Is it still hidden there?" She asked, surprised enough to crane her head around to look at the bowl.

"No, I chose new hiding spots." I considered how annoying it'd been to take a whole day away from the station to completely restore my house to the way it was before that Drimmer bastard came in and messed it all up. "Apparently the bread box was too obvious anyway."

"Bread box." She grinned.

"Yes."

"Well, at least I don't have to worry."

I stared at her. "What?"

"About making you go off the deep end. You're already there. Which is good," She added hastily, "I'm already there. Wow. Feel free to fake an urgent call from work and flee right now."

"Guys do that to you?"

"My last boyfriend did it on a regular basis. But mostly because he pretended to be a mercenary to get girls, and he faked calls from mercenary contacts whenever I wasn't paying him enough attention. You ever been stood up?"

"All the time."

"I find that really, really hard to believe."

"Why?" I asked, confused.

"You're an underappreciated real life hero and you've got amazing blue eyes."

"That's not…"

"You're amazing, Carlton. 'The greatest neither fear death nor desire it.'"

"Come again?"

"It's a Martial quote. You were left by your wife, your job is frankly depressing, and yet you manage to do some good in this insane world of danger."

"Yeah, I guess…"

"Modesty really doesn't suit you."

I shrugged and was surprised to find a pair of lips pressed to my cheek and fingers being entwined with mine.

"Still up for some Cops?"

"Always." I replied.

**I warned you about the fluff! Look, she's a Bostonian school teacher with a strong sense of classic romanticism and a crazy enamoured stalker, of course she's not going to snog him the day she meets him.**

**I just had to bring up the clown-deaths-do-not-make-good-diagrams-to-draw-over-dinner. I mean, really, what's O'Hara's problem with crayons? I'd prefer a date at a restaurant with crayons on the table. No, seriously, crayons have been the making of my career. (I got my first work published, an essay about crayons, and now I won't stop harping on about them!)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Possible angst coming up soon.**

My phone rang. "Whaaaa?"

Obnoxiously perfect memory aside (I admit it's useful as a teacher… until you stumble upon a student's porn magazine), I had a moment of fuzziness where I couldn't understand where I was or why my phone was ringing.

I was on a dull grey couch with black throw pillows in a well-designed living room set with a neutral palette. My phone was playing a ringtone I knew all too well. "Atticus?"

"Alisa, what have you done now?"

"Nice to talk to you too. Don't you have a girlfriend to bore at these ungodly hours of the morning? God, Atticus, it's the weekend. Not everyone is a morning person. And I was up until midnight watching Cops. Best date I've ever had. It certainly beat "

"Don't prattle on, Allie. You always do this when you're stressed. I presume this has something to do with how you're being stalked by some lunatic."

"Ooh, lunatic, what a good word! And prattle—I taught you that one, didn't I?" I replied flippantly, trying to turn this away from my stalker and the growing dread in the pit of my stomach from the fact that he knew about the stalker.

"Now you're stalling, which suggests you want to avoid this subject."

"Look, if you'd answered the phone with whatever the hell you're getting at, we wouldn't go through all this trouble! Journalists established the inverted pyramid method for this very reason."

"And this is why we're divorced."

"Oh, you mean because you can't go ten seconds without rubbing your psychology degree in my face?"

"You can't go five without quoting Martial or Doyle at me!"

"JUST SHUT UP AND GET TO THE POINT YOU COMPLETELY BRAINLESS JERK!"

"Your new little friend just called me and threatened life and limb."

"Not nice being on the receiving end, hmm?"

"Oh, please, you make threats like that all the time."

"I've never been anything but polite to your girlfriends. I've had one actual boyfriend and you threatened to poison him."

"Are you going to harp on about that this entire call?"

"I will unless you get to the actual point. I had over a hundred before I even started looking for help, and I didn't go to the police until I exhausted all other resources. Coward."

"I'm sorry, I take threats seriously. Particularly when the sender shows signs of serious psychological—"

I recognised that tone. It was his _I'm about to do a psychological profile, so sit down and shut up_.

"Wait, wait, can you do a psychological profile on this guy?"

"I have to be able to see the letters."

I sighed. "You're paying for transport and room and board. There's no way in hell I'm paying for this, even if I weren't completely broke."

"You're broke?" Both Atticus and Carlton said simultaneously.

I glanced up at the detective—he was standing in the doorway, already fully dress—and gestured at him to hush. He folded his arms and gave me a no-nonsense look I had a feeling was usually given to suspects. Great, now I was under scrutiny on both ends.

"Yes, Attic-brain, the only college that would hire me after all that has the highest real estate prices around."

"After all what?"

"Carlton!" I snapped. "Atticus, look, I'm a bit busy."

"Is there a man there with you?" Atticus asked.

"Yes, there is. Problem?"

"Has it occurred to you he's the stalker?"

"He's the Head Detective of the SBPD, you idiot." I replied.

I could practically hear him folding his arms and glaring. "How am I to know that?"

"Well, a little faith in my taste in men would be nice, however undeserved given that I married you."

"Much appreciated, Alisa. I'm coming no matter how many insults you throw my way."

"Dammit, there goes my plan."

"Goodbye, Alisa."

"Atticus, I'm—" A click told me it was useless, but I continued anyway. "Sorry you got involved in this… Asshole."

"Your stalker contacted your ex-husband?" Carlton asked.

"It would appear so."

"He's coming here."

"Yes. He's a psychologist, and a brilliant one. He'll analyse you to death if you let him, so ignore it. Try very hard not to punch him, as he'll make you feel like an idiot for it."

"I just got a call from O'Hara. They've got a lead—it would appear your stalker stays in the dormitories on campus."

I groaned. "That narrows it down to a thousand-odd kids I talk to every day."

"And, um, I can't investigate this case any further." He shifted awkwardly.

"What?" I jumped up. "Did I screw something up?"

"No, it's just Karen thinks we're dating now and she's worried I'll lose objectivity and get the case thrown out on a technicality. Look, either I can't see you again, or I get off this case."

I scanned his face. Even from such a short time with him, I could tell he loved his work and this case would interest him whether he found me attractive or not. And yet he was giving this mystery up to stay with me in a more casual capacity.

"I… Carlton… Um, thank you for choosing me. Who's going to take this case?"

Carlton sighed. "Shawn Spencer."

"That pseudo-psychic?" I asked dubiously.

He strode over to me and I was once again struck by how tall he was. "Look, I can't stand the kid. He's an idiot. But he does get results, no matter how outlandish the process. Just trust me, okay?" His voice was harsh, but something in his eyes said he was afraid.

"I trust you." I whispered.

A split second before he did, I knew he was going to kiss me, but I didn't move.

I'd once married a guy who didn't go to the bathroom without a backup plan, and had dated a paranoid schizophrenic for a year, and never had I kissed anyone so damn cautious.

Apparently, however, the fact that I thoughtlessly leaned into him was enough to convince him to stop worrying, because his arms tightened around me and he pushed me back against the kitchen island. He was almost desperate in his movements, as if he was expecting me to shove him away in a moment and wanted to make up for it by kissing me as much as possible right now.

"Carlton," I murmured when he finally broke away.

Immediately, like I'd flipped a switch, he was businesslike and defensive. "What?"

"Dinner tonight?" I was breathless still, and grinning like a fool. "Don't worry about cooking. We'll order pizza and I'll unearth one of my few leftover DVD's."

"Just how broke are you?"

"Um, think Ramen noodles and spaghettios."

He grimaced. "I'll buy the pizza."

"My hero." I laughed, and kissed him gently before leaving to find a psychic.

"Allie?"

"Yes?"

"Don't, um… Don't get shot."

**Ah, Carlton, you're such a romantic. *rolls eyes***


End file.
